


The road to be never taken

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Evil Mary Morstan, Mentions of Violence, No ragemonster John, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Season 4 never existed, Season 4 what season 4, Undo season 4, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-29 04:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16256510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: John is trying to guess what he managed to mess up this time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because Season 4 should have never existed. Two or three acceptable scenes don't justify the level of abuse presented or the one-up-man-ship with the Embodiments Of All Evil or how the senior Holmeses treat their older son.  
> So this is my headcanon to how Season 5 should begin.

His mouth felt weird and he had to focus to make it work the way he needed.

“Gnkh.”

Someone was in the room, making small sounds of sleep. Quiet breaths were interspersed with hospital background of beeps, far conversations and clinking glass.

Ah. Hospital.

_Oh God, what have I done? Is he OK? Did I hit him again?_

No. He would have remembered. Or would he? The last time it was like waking up from the most fucked-up nightmare hehad ever had. Why would he EVER hit Sherlock, and for whose sake, his so-called wife? Why would he…

_That pale skin, marred with bruises, blood dripping from the cuts._

He felt nausea raising and shivered.

He dearly hoped it was something else this time. Anything else but his own two hands hurting his best friend. Anything but him laying his cursed hands on the man he loved.

The beeps sped up, a bit. He probably should have raised by now - good of the staff to give him a cot to nap on, it was much better than any chair he had slept in over the years - and checked on Sherlock.

Still, he wanted to just lie there, keeping the illusion of being, for once, not the guilty party of whatever happened. Because he knew that if Mycroft ever found out he had hit Sherlock again… Fuck Mycroft, he would have to wait his turn - Lestrade would throttle John first.

If John wouldn’t just deal with it himself first. After all, who would stand being around an unstable fuckup like him? He could barely take care of himself…

_Rosie. Rosie would need someone._

Molly was already more of a mother to her than he had ever been a father. Molly would…

He allowed one tear to roll from his still-closed eyes.

He had to make the plan. If he opened his eyes and Sherlock’s documentation said anything about manual strangulation, being beat up or ANYTHING that would point to John… He sighed. No, he would not be around the man much longer. It was not good, it was like a cancer eating at him.

He swallowed, hard. _No more, Watson. Be a man. Take responsibility for your actions. Turn yourself in or leave the poor boy in peace. You don’t deserve him, his trust, his faith. You’ve hurt him enough. Stop it._

He tried cracking his eyes open, but found it exceedingly hard to do.

A cool palm on his cheek.

“John?”

_Oh. That voice. That touch._

He nuzzled into that hand slightly, hoping against hope that it was, in fact, just an accident that had brought them there and not yet again him beating that sweet man into pulp because of his fucking unresolved issues with himself. Unresolved, ha. He wanted Sherlock, all that the man would be willing to give him. His attention, his friendship, his scorn, his lo…

No. He didn’t deserve to even think it. Not that word.

He didn’t even deserve that delicate touch to his face, these musician’s fingers trailing his jaw and eyebrow line.

“He moved” Sherlock said to someone - someone outside?

Why wouldn’t he be moving? Why should Sherlock be so delighted? Why… He should be distancing himself from John, shouldn’t he? It would be safer for him. Nothing good would ever come to him from being near John. Nothing ever did.

He sighed, trying to motivate himself to open his eyes. It made no sense to stay in that weird softness, no sense for Sherlock to touch him so delicately. He had to tell Sherlock… He would not be burdening them all with his presence any longer. Sherlock would be safe now.

“Nrlg.”

Why wouldn’t his voice just work?

“He is waking up.”

Mycroft. Fuck. If Mycroft was there, he probably wouldn’t even have the chance to off himself on his own. There was probably an order of execution signed by the Queen waiting. Fuck. What happened? Why the blackout? Well, it wasn’t the first one, was it? He must have…

“Please, stand aside” a new voice. “Doctor Watson, can you hear me?”

He squeezed fingers in a loose fist and tried to answer.

Why were they focusing on him? They should be helping Sherlock. Sherlock was the one he had hurt. Sherlock needed help, not him. He was fine. He was always fine, until he was wrong in the head and hurting his belo… his best friend. _Like an animal, like a barbarian, darkening that delicate, white skin, wrenching these long, lanky arms, hitting that lovely, alien face… NO!_

He tried to turn on his side, to sit up, to stand up and leave. They probably wouldn’t let him - Mycroft would catch up with him, but maybe they would give him the honourable way out. He couldn’t be allowed to continue like this.

“John? You moved, can you do it again? Your hand, can you try squeezing my fingers?”

_Oh. If Sherlock… No. No squeezing. No hurting. Never again._

“Ngh” was all he managed.

There was something wrong. Oh, maybe someone had stopped him in time, at last. They disabled him. Good, They just have to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t stay with him anymore - that man didn’t know what was good for him…

“John, please, move your hand.”

The pleading tone in Sherlock’s voice broke his heart.

He could do that much, couldn’t he?

He moved his fingers, touching the pads, one by one, to Sherlock’s palm.

“He can hear and follow directions” the stranger - doctor? - pronounced. “He is waking up. Let’s just hope there is no permanent damage. Doctor Watson… John, can you move something else? Anything?”

He tapped the pad of his index finger against the soft, warm skin again. And again.

“John?” Sherlock was close, closer than before. Wrong. Very wrong. Mycroft should be taking him away, to safety.

John focused.

taptaptaptap pause taptappress pause tappresstap pause press

“He is in pain” Sherlock was turning to someone.

“How…”

“Oh, don’t be daft. He just told me. John, is it somewhere specific? Your heart? Head? Legs?”

presstap pause presspresspress

“Just, you are hurting in general? Joints? It it…”

presstap pause presspresspress

“No. So, you are…”

presstappresspress pause presspresspress pause taptappress

“Me? I’m not hurt, John, Why would I…”

taptaptaptap pause presspresspress pause taptaptap pause tappresspresstap

“We are in a hospital, yes. But I’m not the one who is hurt…”

“What the hell…”

“Morse code, doctor Wright. John is touching Sherlock’s hand.”

_God bless Mycroft Holmes._

taptap pause taptaptaptap pause taptappress pause tappresstap pause press pause taptappress

“What are you talking about, John?”

“Sherlock…?”

“He just… he just said “I hurt u”, and I’m not…”

Mycroft’s characteristic gait approached his bed.

“Doctor Watson… John. I assure you, my brother is most certainly NOT hurt. His complaints about hospital chairs notwithstanding. Why would he be…”

John managed to force his eyes open. And squeezed them shut promptly.

“Lights!”

Everything dimmed behind his eyelids.

“Try again, John. You will see for yourself I am fine. I…”

He was. He was fine, he was healthy - a bit rumpled maybe, with a shade of a beard, but better than John had seen for a year or more. As good as on that fateful Christmas morning. As good as he was when he came down from that high at the airport. His face untouched by…

There was no scar. That last beating, it was… It had left that perfect face scarred, and now there was no trace…

A sob shook his body.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s fine. It was a nightmare. It was all a bad dream, John. The drugs she gave you, it was all because of them. Shhh.”

The cool hand on his cheek. The light green eyes boring into his. The focused glare.

Pale skin, untouched by his hands.

_Road not taken and never to be taken. Never._

“Shllk” he managed.

And Sherlock smiled at him.


	2. How Do We Even Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's thoughts on the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be an one-shot, but it begged for the "other side". Here it is.

John was looking thin, and more so with every day spent in that bed. He was now thinner than he had ever been, even all these years ago, when they had met for the first time. There were shadows under his eyes and the slight stubble _wasn_ _’t helping_. It was neither John's usual smooth shave nor a proper beard. Just something unkempt, in between. Uncared for. Not properly seen to. Untended.

Sherlock’s fingers itched to pick up a razor and get rid of that irritating growth. Yet, he stopped himself. His hands shook too much these days - he would admit that openly - and he didn’t want to nick John’s skin. In his state, any kind of additional strain was an enormous risk. Even a tiny shaving cut.

He rubbed John’s fingers, one by one, making sure the fingernails were of correct colour. He moved the joints cautiously, bending and rotating slowly, lightly. Fingers, wrist, elbow, arm. Repeat on the other side. Toes, foot, ankle, knee, hip. Repeat.

There was something soothing in that routine. It was now a part of his day, the scope of which had been reduced to that little room and limited contact with outside.

Lestrade came every day, even on the weekends, bringing tea, biscuits, sandwiches and light reading. Usually by the time they were done with the tea and biscuits (Sherlock) and the sandwiches (Lestrade), Sherlock was also done with the reading and deducing. It was a worthy pastime, as pastimes went, so he indulged the DI. The man needed to feel involved.

Of course, he already _was_ involved. If not for him, it would have been weeks before someone noticed John was not as perfectly fine as he tried to tell everyone. He had been the one to drop by at the surgery and notice John listlessness and exhaustion, quite out of place for a man in the middle of his working week and working day, took him out for lunch and managed to get him to admit he had been feeling under the weather for days, ever since Sherlock shot Magnussen. He had ascribed the feeling to the perturbing events during Christmas, but it was clear to the DI that there had to be something more complicated going on.

Which quickly showed when John reacted with fear to hearing a street musician playing a violin. And then was was reinforced when he made a few disjointed remarks that may have - but didn't necessarily - meant he wasn't perfectly sure what exactly the date was.

Lestrade made an error, though. He believed John when the doctor said he would be better off going back home and getting some rest. He even went back to the surgery to inform the staff that John would not be coming back, as he felt poorly.

He had redeemed himself later that same evening when he made an unexpected visit to John's home - his _gut_ , as he confessed, was nagging him, especially after a random remark made by someone at the surgery (saying that John seemed more than unfocused recently) - and found him on the living room floor, unconscious, various drug paraphernalia spread around him. He showed (rare, but quite satisfactory, in Sherlock's opinion) common sense and didn't call for an ambulance, but phoned Mycroft.

Good thing, that. John would not have been able to retain his beloved medical license if someone had ruled him responsible for what had happened to him. People who came with Mycroft were able to find items seeded all around the flat that had created the image of an unstable, drug-addicted madman. That would have been damning to John's reputation and a death blow to his already shaky medical career. That is, unless someone professionally curious scratched the surface and also found all the tiny speakers, microphones and cameras installed in the bedroom and living room, including a few _inside_ the sofa. All of them still, as if for a taunt, quietly murmuring, in Mary's voice, the sentences perfectly aimed at pushing someone into paranoia, a pure waking nightmare fuel. No wonder John was barely functioning, if she had been doing _that_ to him in his sleep. The wonder was that he had been able to interact with people at all.

And no wonder he had been avoiding _Sherlock_ religiously.

He had been given the transcriptions of what she had been saying (they finally tracked the files back to John's own computer) and it gave him two sleepless nights as he analysed the vicious content and worked on the chemical composition of drugs she had left behind - the ones she had been poisoning John with since the New Year.

She was gone now. She had injected John with a massive dose of mixed chemicals from her stash and disappeared, counting on them being too focused on John to follow her.

She forgot to take into account the fact that there were _two_ Holmes brothers and when one was distracted, the other would step up and help. She had never really known Mycroft or seen how the two of them moved in perfect synchronisation when family was threatened. He might have been overly affected by John's state and focused on resolving the immediate issue of saving his friend, but Mycroft felt positively dreadful for having missed the signs, so he offered a part of his staff for the purpose of search and retrieval of Mary. They eagerly took the assignment, once the scripts were shared with the team and the description of John's state was presented.

Because John was in a coma.

The amount and the combination of drugs in his body had apparently overwhelmed his nervous system and led to a nearly-complete shutdown. He was, miraculously, breathing on his own, but nothing more.

They were entering the fourth week of his hospital stay and Sherlock was ready to strangle Mary Morstan if she ever came close to them again.

He sat on the supposedly comfortable chair provided by the hospital staff and started reading John's morning bloodwork results again. Once they accepted that their patient came with the guards attached, a scientifically-inclined madman staying permanently in the room wasn't that much of a stretch - and was actually helpful in his own way, if annoying.

They never expected him to be willing to learn. They never expected him to commit and sacrifice his time and actually physically _help_.

They didn't know how much he was willing to do in order to ensure John's continued survival. Learning how to exercise the limbs that would have been left in the hands of an unfeeling physiotherapy nurse was nothing compared to what he had already _done_.

He must have nodded off. The papers were now strewn on the floor, but it wasn't the sound of them falling that had woken him. If was a soft exhalation followed by some kind of a mumbled word.

And the heart monitor had sped up its beeping.

He straightened slowly, unwilling to be proved false in his hopes.

There was a fat, glistening tear rolling down John's temple and Sherlock was on his feet and by the bed in a flash. Cautiously, delicately, he extended his hand and cupped John's face, whispering his friend's name, his voice breaking and shaky.

There was a movement, finally. A slight, slightest movement he had ever seen - John's cheek turning into more contact with his open palm.

He heard the door opening with a whisper behind him - Mycroft and Lestrade, yes - but he ignored them. There was nothing more important than the man in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically, if we ever get season 5, I expect TPTB to mess it up even further, make us, fans, even more frustrated with idiotic character changes, topping all the previous baddies with Someone Much More Evil and, most of all, queerbating and stringing us along, but my headcannon is that - season 4 is a nightmare/hallucination of John that serves as a precaution of what may happen, should the boys drift apart too much. and Mary is properly evil.


	3. Undoing and Unmaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft shows Sherlock the interrogation of "Mary Watson" and then meddles a bit. To everyone's profit, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the comments, Purrfectlmt asked why Mary did what she did, and it kept bugging me. So, here it is. In a few hours, I will post the last chapter and THAT WILL BE ALL. For this story.

His brother looked haggard, but much better than any time in the last few weeks. With every day he regained his previous neatness of dress and he had already got rid of that dreadful attempt at beard. Didn't really suit him. John looked better every day, too. Less disoriented. More focused. Reading newspapers. Only sometimes could be caught staring helplessly at the date and then at Sherlock, as if checking the reality of what he is seeing.

He had finally told them what happened - from his point of view. The cases, the Prime Minister busts, the pearl, the pendrive, the drug usage, the aquarium, the... everything. Once he started, he couldn't stop. He cried, ugly, exhausting sobs of a grown man taken, again and again, past his limits. He didn't allow anyone to touch him for a while, except for Mike Stamford. He clung to his old friend at some point, apologising to everyone and catching air spasmodically, explaining that because Mike had been travelling, he couldn't come to the wedding, and so Mary never learnt about him, past the fact that he used to be a relatively close mate at the uni. And so he never showed up in that year that never really was - that meant, these five weeks, soaked in copious amounts of interesting chemicals. And so John _knew_ Mike was real.

Mycroft saw his brother's fists curling up and then loosening - if John wished, he could invite anyone who made him feel safe, even if Sherlock was not happy about it. Mike made John feel more connected to the reality, Mike stayed.

And now, with John sleeping under the nurses' watchful eye, they sneaked out of his room and into an unused one next to it. Mycroft opened his laptop, logged in to the footage repository and simply played the first file.

 

_"...after the scene at the airport."_

_"What kind of drugs?"_

_"Oh, make your genius work on it for a bit. He will find them all - hopefully in time."_

_She sounded gleeful._

_"What was your aim?"_

_"What do you think?"_

_"This is, unless you forgot, an interrogation. What was your aim in drugging doctor Watson to the point where he became almost non-functioning?"_

_"To make sure he was_ _**mine** _ _, dammit. And he is mine, now. Nobody else's."_

_"So you wanted to possess him, even though you would have destroyed his mind."_

_"Well, I would still have had_ _**some** _ _piece of him. And it is still more than what Sherlock would have had."_

_A pause betrayed the interrogator's slight surprise._

_"It is very important to you, to have doctor Watson and not let him go back to his friend?"_

_"Well, that was the whole point, wasn't it?"_

_She snarled. Full blown snarl, lips curled, nostrils flared._

_"It would have finally killed him. So many times I tried and at last, I would be holding the key to offing the great Sherlock Holmes."_

_"But you didn't need to damage the doctor so severely. He may never recover from the dosage you used."_

_She shrugged._

_"If I can't have him, I'd rather not see him crawl back to his master and lick his boots."_

Mycroft-on-screen and Mycroft in front of the laptop winced in sync.

Sherlock shivered with revulsion.

_"So your main aim was to keep doctor Watson under your control and block his contact with Sherlock Holmes?"_

_"Well, that and the sex. He is very pliant, you know. The drugs make him_ _**happy** _ _to do what I wish. After a while, I didn't have to tell him what I wanted, I just had to suggest... Even once I made him believe I was dead, sacrificed myself for Sherlock, actually, I managed to get him into my bed. He was hella confused, I must say, but he still agreed to let me fuck him so nicely."_

Sherlock looked as if he was going to throw up.

So did, in fact, Mycroft on the screen.

_"You have obtained huge amounts of drugs and hid them in various places in the flat. What was the reason for this?"_

_She laughed._

_"Nobody will retain a medical license once they are found using. Nobody, even saintly doctor Watson. It was the last resort, of course, only to be used if I had to run. If not for that interfering copper, I wouldn't have had to use them!"_

 

The rest of the interview went in similar fashion, and after a minute or two Sherlock signalled for him to close the window and collapsed, lying flat on the hospital bed.

"I'm assuming you used some chemical help to get her _that_ honest?"

"It seemed appropriate, in a way."

He knew there was nothing nice about the thin smile that curved his lips.

"She wanted to have him, no matter what state he was in, just because that stopped him from coming back to me?"

"Correct."

"And she... She... She had _sex_ with him when he was already convinced she was dead?"

"You saw his bloodwork. He was full of Rohypnol and..."

"I _was_ the one who identified the components" his brother interrupted him. "I know. She must have been keeping him in some kind of balance of this and stimulants to make him go to work and look at least half-functional. It means he is working with cretins and absolute idiots, who never noticed that he was drugged..."

"Neither did we" he pointed out, calmly.

"Well, he was under orders to avoid us, first, and then had been induced to believe he had hurt me and so made to avoid me out of guilt."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Sherlock..."

"She said she tried so many times to kill me. I can infer some new information from that, I suppose. She was at the pool, correct?"

"One that was aiming at you, as far as we can say."

"And when I...?"

"She was the one watching John."

"Then, after I came back, she shot me..."

"And then she provided the drugs you took on the plane. Oh, don't look at me like that, there was nobody else with the means and the access to your favourites."

His brother looked away and sniffed.

"And had she managed to take John away from you, she would have killed you hands-off."

Tightening of the jaw. White nostrils. Curled up fists.

Sharp inhale.

"Will you be able now to stay alive for him?" he asked finally. "Is he enough to keep you with us?"

"He is always enough for me. He will always be quite enough for me."

"I had people check your flat, just in case she managed to get inside when we were at the hospital. For the time being, nothing was found, but I posted guards around it and added some tiny surveillance here and there, to catch her people, should any come."

Sherlock's jaw flexed. Yet he remained silent.

"This is..."

"Needed. I must know he is safe. He must know it is safe. We don't need any nasty surprises from her, even if she, herself, is safely contained" Sherlock combed back his curls with slightly shaky hands and looked up, finally meeting his gaze. "Thank you, brother."

Oh, fuck. Now he would need to check with the ministry of agriculture whether there had been any news of swine taking flight.

"Anything for you" he smiled cautiously.

"Anything for John" Sherlock corrected.

"Well, whichever way works. Now, there is some more of that interview, but mostly pertaining to her 'jobs' old and recent, and of course and explanation..."

"The baby. Fake, I suppose. How did she hide it?"

"There was a baby, at some point - during the wedding. She lost it on one of her missions, wore a fake belly ever since. Probably one of the reasons she was drugging John - he didn't notice what she didn't tell him explicitly."

He saw Sherlock swallow and shake his head.

"It was not a sustainable situation" he whispered. "She would have had to do something. It was..."

"That means, for one, it was not the DI Lestrade's fault. He has been beating himself up ever since. Tell the man it would have happened anyway, and as it was, he was there to, well, save John."

His brother nodded slowly.

"She was running out of time. Every day the risk of him doing something wrong at the surgery was higher. Every day there was a chance he would collapse on his way to work, or meet me by accident - or you. She didn't instill fear of Lestrade in him, probably simple omission, so he was one of the few that could have approached John safely _and_ notice changes. The other would have been Stamford, I suppose. Any of us would have elicited less than friendly response, but Lestrade..."

"Or doctor Hooper, I suppose."

"Everyone ignores Molly" Sherlock quipped weakly.

"Well then, we should keep it that way" he suggested. "Nobody knows when a friendly pathologist may be needed for something vital. Back to the topic - I will have transcripts for you by the end of the working day, so you can peruse them at your leisure. Now, go. Go, go" he shooed his brother out and into John's room.

He watched the tall form fold itself into the chair he provided (much more comfortable than what the hospital could offer) and pick up the doctor's hand.

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson" he whispered. "Back, again, just as it should be."

He thumbed his phone.

"Anthea, dear. Be so kind as to locate the marriage documents of Doctor and Mrs Watson and begin the process of having this atrocity annulled. Identity fraud, I suppose, will be the easiest."

He heard a tiny 'tsk' from the other side.

"Wouldn't it be better to just make him a widower?" she asked finally, her voice betraying the exhaustion of last weeks.

"I'd rather make him never married, and I suppose that would be both his and my brother's preference. He will have to create some kind of story, at least for his coworkers at the surgery... if he wishes to go back there. But I think un-making it will be for the best. Take care of it and then you can take a week off. I think we can... Yes, we can safely do without you for a few days."

"Thank you, sir."

There was a voucher for a SPA resort in France waiting in her inbox already, and a ticket for a nice, midday flight booked and ready for her to pick it up at the front desk of the office.

He nodded to himself and turned his attention to his brother.

John was awake, speaking weakly, but finally, after almost two weeks, looking Sherlock straight in the eye.

Improvement.

Doctor Watson's things (what was left of them, that woman was vicious) had been already moved to 221B and left in stacked boxes in the living room. A few orders of clothing were added, to make up for the lost items, but not too many, not to overdo. Mycroft took some tiny pleasure in picking replacements for items that _that woman_ had damaged, but in much better quality. Nothing could, of course, replace the handmade jumpers or other objects of sentimental value that went missing somehow, but if there was something that the British Government could do, it was to restore a soldier's dress uniform and his decorations to their former glory. Buying some shirts and several pairs of trousers was just an afterthought, if faintly satisfying. He did ask his tailor to keep the style fairly low-key, in order not to make John overly self-conscious of accepting them.

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson" he nodded slowly. "Baker Street 221B. Well then, Cyril. Let's go back to the office" he cocked an eyebrow at the quiet bodyguard. The man nodded back, but suddenly stopped him and pointed to something in John's room.

Mycroft turned and watched, mesmerised, as the small soldier sat up and pulled his little brother into a most indecent kiss.

"Ah" he smiled. "Even better."


	4. Recording log 003, Mic221B030

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A transcript from one of the microphones installed at 221B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the last part. That was quick :)

Recording log 003, Mic221B030  
Transcript: A

[transcript begin: 14:55]  
[indistinct]  
[door shuts]  
14:55 JW (tired): So... it was all just a lie.  
14:55 SH: Yes, most of it at least.  
14:55 [steps approaching]  
14:57 JW: And she is alive?  
14:57 SH: As of yesterday evening, yes.  
14:59 JW: And she never sacrificed herself for you?  
15:00 SH: I think we can safely put her in the column captioned "people who will gladly strangle Sherlock if they can".  
15:00 [glass breaking]  
15:00 [indistinct]  
15:00 SH: Shit  
15:00 SH: I didn't mean it like this. She is not getting out. Mycroft has her now and she is not going anywhere.  
15:00 [panting]  
15:02 JW: God. I... I...  
15:02 [indistinct]  
15:02 SH: Show this here. You're bleeding.  
15:03 JW: Just a scratch.  
15:03 SH: Let me have a look, OK? Your coagulation...  
15:03 JW: Fuck my coagulation!  
15:03 [chair legs scraping]  
15:03 [soft rustling]  
15:05 JW: I'm sorry, Sherlock... I'm not good for you to be around... I mean, I... You...  
15:05 [indistinct]  
15:05 SH: Do you want me to... or would you...  
15:06 JW: My hands are a bit shaky.  
15:06 SH: So are mine [laughter] what a pair of old men we are.  
15:09 JW: You are young, Sherlock. You could... do anything you want. You still have a future, you know.  
15:10 SH: [indistinct] the surgery, so there will be no problems. You will need to undergo a physical and blood tests, just to make sure nobody can claim it was you who was [indistinct] she was poisoning you. We can't let them make it your fault.  
15:11 [rustling, water boiling, glass/china clinking, water pouring]  
15:14 SH: Milk?  
15:14 JW: Is there any?  
15:15 SH: My brother takes inordinate pleasure in ensuring this fridge is filled with food. Probably projecting his needs on us.  
15:15 JW: I, for one, am grateful. Milk, milk. That awful mockery of creamer at the hospital tasted more like icing than like milk.  
15:16 SH: Shower? I think Mrs Hudson bought some of that pine shower gel you used to like [indistinct] I could order in? You probably need something blander than your normal fare, after all this time off normal food...  
15:16 [indistinct]  
15:17 JW: Shower will be nice, ta.  
15:18 [door shuts]  
15:20 [remote phone conversation]  
15:35 [rustling]  
15:40 [door opens] [indistinct] [rustling] [steps]  
15:45 [remote doorbell]  
15:46 [steps]  
15:47 SH: John, the food... Oh. No, no. Come on. Up here. Everything is fine. [rustling] This will be warmer, hm? I know, I know. We can't let her win this round.  
15:48 JW [very quiet]: How can you stand being around me? I did all...  
15:48 SH: You didn't. It wasn't you, it was her.  
15:48 JW: But I hit you! I beat you up, that first evening... She didn't invent it out of nowhere, she used what she knew about me! She knew I could hurt you. She saw it in me, she...  
[rustling]  
15:50 SH: This is a lie, John. Yes, you did hit me. I admit, it hurt. I also admit I should have conducted that particular meeting in a different fashion. You overreacted, but I definitely did not make it any easier for you.  
15:51 JW: But I hit you. I would never, I could never... It was like a nightmare...  
[rustling, steps]  
15:52 SH: Stay on the sofa, I will bring you a new tea. You need fluids and rest, the doctors said. And yes, I know you are a doctor and I know - I think they told me at least three times - that doctors make the absolutely worst patients.  
[rustling, weak laughter - JW]  
15:55 JW: Thank you. I just... It is all so jumbled up. Sometimes I wake up and I think I'm still there. I know it is not true, but somehow it's even worse, because I feel like I'm in a nightmare that I just... can't... wake... up... from... [yawning]  
15:56 SH: Come here. You need to eat something before you fall asleep.  
[rustling]  
[metallic noises]  
16:00 JW [tired]: I think I'm relieved. Does this make me a terrible human being?  
16:00 SH: What?  
16:00 JW [hesitantly]: The baby. I mean, I saw her being born. I saw... I remember leaving her with other people. Random people. I couldn't cope. I couldn't... And then... And now she isn't here. She never really existed. She... She never really was.  
[soft rustling]  
16:02 SH: You are just a human being, John. Not terrible. Mary is a terrible human being, you were the victim here. You have been lied to, influenced and taken advantage of. Half of what you are feeling right now are remnants from how she tried to manipulate your mind. She instilled the feeling of guilt for beating me up - which never happened - and for her death - which never happened. She probably convinced you it was your fault you couldn't cope with caring for the baby... which never existed.  
16:05 JW: Thank you. It's... It hurts. It's like one of these SF shows, when someone slips into a different timeline and suddenly, they have a chance to undo all their mistakes, because they can make sure to never make them in the first place. They are free to... to just do what they never did - or not do things that...  
16:10 SH: Like this?  
16:10 JW: Oh, God, yes. Just like this.  
[indistinct]

[transcript end 16:10]

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,
> 
> Thank you for making it that far!  
> This is my one of my bigger stories and I'm thankful to everyone who managed to read it. I have a small request to you however - a tiny thing that will help me improve, hopefully.  
> I am taking a writing course and one of the tasks is to ask my readers to describe my writing style in 3 adjectives. I'd be grateful if you could provide this kind of feedback :)  
> (if you provided it already somewhere else - THANK YOU! :))
> 
> Find me on [my tumblr](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/).  
> [My writing blog.](https://fanfik.wordpress.com/)  
> [My handmade blog.](https://srebrna.wordpress.com/)
> 
> Regards
> 
> Srebrna F H


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